


Now What?

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Murder, Orgy, Rebirth, Reincarnation, Self-Discovery, Sex Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 17:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15733755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: Jerry had heard about the Game. Caught eavesdropping, he was forced to join in. Group sex, orgies, and ending with his death. But, that wasn't the end of it. Jerry returned, but he wasn't Jerry any more.





	Now What?

Jerry Barnhart had heard the rumors about the Game. There were some  
strange things going on in that old house on the hill. Group sex, wild  
orgies . . . unbelievable stuff. Now, if you could just get past the  
thorny hedges, razor wire, and killer dogs . . .

It was easy enough to crawl through the hedges. Ripped clothes and a  
scratched up face were no big deal. The "razor wire" consisted of a  
few rusty strands of ordinary barbed wire. No problem cutting a passage  
through with ordinary electrical pliers. No sign of the dogs. They must  
have been out to lunch.

Pinpoints of light were coming from a cellar window. After scraping  
away years of accumulated dirt and spider webs from the cracked glass,  
Jerry got down on his knees to peer inside. People were doing something  
down there . . . They were naked! They were --

A brutally strong hand had grabbed Jerry by the collar and was hauling  
him onto his feet. He coughed and choked as a backhanded slap spun him  
around. Two hefty men grabbed his arms and frogmarched him up crumbling  
stone steps and in through what looked like an entrance.

There was a tall, middle-aged redheaded woman sitting behind a rolltop  
wooden desk. She looked up from a stack of papers and eyeballed Jerry  
as if he were an insect on a dissection table. She looked familiar  
somehow. He must have seen her somewhere. He just couldn't remember when  
or where.

The men tossed him like a sack of potatoes onto a battered sofa beside  
the desk.

"Another one, Mistress Celia," said thug number one.

"Caught in the act," said thug number two.

"Trespassing may be only a misdemeanor in these parts, but it will fetch  
you at least a week in jail," the woman said. "Judge Watkins happens to  
be a very special friend of ours."

"Let me go. Please!"

"We could do that. However . . . then you might never find out what it  
is we do here. You _are_ just a little bit curious, aren't you?"

"Well . . . "

 

"Let's welcome a new participant in the Game."

Jerry stood in the center of a circle of applauding people. They were  
naked. So was he.

The object of the Game, insofar as he understood it, was to demonstrate  
self-control. To hold back from coming. To delay orgasm as long as  
possible.

As a newcomer, he had been accorded the "honor" of being Game Master.  
This meant he could choose any of the other participants, any of  
the other people in the room. Women or men. Singly or in groups. In  
any combination. He could then perform whatever non-injurious acts  
upon them that he desired. He could have vaginal, oral, or anal sex  
with any of the surprisingly attractive women here. He could have the  
latter two varieties of sex with any of the men. He could be the active  
or passive participant. He could penetrate or be penetrated, or both  
simultaneously. But there was one important proviso: he wasn't allowed  
to come.

If, within the allotted time, he should lose control and ejaculate,  
then he lost. Lost the Game. At that point, he would become "fair game"  
for any and all of the other participants. For the next two hours, they  
could _use_ him in any manner they liked. This had some very  
disturbing implications.

Jerry did not so much fear what the women might do to him if he lost.  
After all, having one or more of them climb on top of him -- being  
submerged in female flesh -- wasn't all that unpleasant a prospect.  
But the men. _The men!_ He had the distinct feeling that some of  
them hungered for his body and wouldn't at all mind ass-fucking him  
until he was way past raw and bleeding.

"Now, Jerry, since this is your first time, we've set the time limit at  
twenty minutes. For experienced participants, we usually set the period  
at an hour or more."

Celia, the redhead who had given him such a hard time after his capture,  
was explaining the rules. Apparently she, too, played the Game. She was  
naked, like everyone else here, and she looked damn fine in her bare skin,  
even though she must have been in her forties, at least.

"If you can last the complete twenty minutes, you'll avoid losing. The  
other way to beat the Game to to compel one of the other participants  
to orgasm before you do. Then you're home free.

"And, oh yes, you're not permitted to use your hands. Any other body part  
is okay.

"One of the collateral benefits of playing the Game is that it teaches you  
self-control. But, only if you survive that long, kiddo. Ready to give it  
a shot, or have you changed your mind? This is your last chance to get out  
while the gettin's good."

"I'm game," he said.

 

Jerry didn't stand a chance. At twenty years old he was a semi-virgin.  
His one prior fumbling attempt at sex had ended in disaster. He'd gotten  
so excited while pawing his girlfriend that he had ejaculated in his  
underwear while madly flailing around, try to pull his pants off. He  
still remembered Gina's hoots of laughter.

It was actually an impressive performance for a virgin. He was on his  
third woman, and eight minutes into his time when it happened. Trying  
to be clever, he had been sucking at nipples and clits, avoiding the  
temptation to insert himself into any of the enticing orifices.

It was Celia who did him in. Absorbed in tongue action, Jerry first  
became aware of her when powerful female legs scissors-locked around his  
midsection. He fell backwards, bumping his head lightly on the carpeted  
floor. By then it was too late because Celia had somehow swiveled atop him  
and managed to pull his shaft into her using only her marvelously flexible  
legs. Her trained pussy was squeezing and pumping him. It took only a  
few seconds in his aroused state before he began spurting helplessly  
inside her. He groaned as he realized that he had lost. He _was_  
lost.

"We'll go easy on you this time," Celia told him. "We wouldn't want this  
experience to shatter you, after all. You're young, strong, and eager,  
and some day you might even be a useful addition to the group."

 

As instructed, Jerry lay on his left side on a padded exercise mat.  
Facing him was a dark-haired woman whose curvy body he had groped just  
a few minutes ago. She massaged his limp dick into semi-hardness, then  
tamped it into her pussy with her fingertips ( _rather like stuffing_  
the cavity of a turkey prior to baking). Now there was someone  
lying behind him, rubbing something wet and cold between the crack of  
his buttocks. _Lube._ "Ready for some backdoor action?" a baritone  
voice asked.

It wasn't as if he had never taken it up the ass. When he was younger,  
he used to push a finger or two up inside himself while masturbating. And  
once, on a crazy impulse, he had gone into a gay bar and let himself be  
picked up. The guy's cock hadn't been all that big, and it had felt kind  
of like a medium-sized turd moving in and out of him. It hadn't hurt,  
exactly, but it hadn't turned him on either. No big deal.

_Uh-oh._ This guy's shaft was something else again. Jerry felt his  
asshole stretch, and then stretch some more as his gut slowly filled  
up with hard flesh. Now _he_ was the one being stuffed and it  
was pulling him apart inside. In front though, the woman had begun  
rhythmically pussy-squeezing his cock, and waves of pure sensation  
drowned him in a fruit salad of sensory overload.

_Ah!_ Jerry was coming again and his cock began its dance of  
celebration in its sheath inside the woman, and his asshole began  
involuntary contractions around the cock embedded deep in his rectum. The  
woman had pulled his head against her breasts and gave him comfort as  
the man continued pounding in and out of him.

Jerry was sore inside, but it wasn't so bad, and the thought of being  
ass-fucked while in the warm arms of a woman was somehow weirdly exciting.  
Now he felt a throbbing up inside him, deep in the upper chamber of his  
ass, and a wetness there. _The man had come in his ass._ He had  
been thoroughly and completely fucked, both front and back.

"My turn now," a man's voice said. _Another_ man's voice.

Again, the feeling of being ripped open. This time it was easier,  
maybe because his ass had already been stretched and loosened.  
_I could probably get used to this_ , Jerry thought. _I might even_  
get to like it after a while. Actually, I like it a little already.  
He felt himself hardening.

The woman smiled, and took his dick into her mouth and playfully tongued  
it. It was fully erect now.

Two other men ass-fucked him. Jerry was getting sore and abraded inside.  
His cock was still painfully hard. Celia approached and asked if he'd  
like that tended to. When he nodded, she bent over, facing away from him,  
and presented her naked ass. Her pussy was slick with moisture. It was  
tight and hot, and eminently fuckable. And, as he found out a few minutes  
later, so was her asshole. But still, something wasn't quite right.

There was a dark and heavy energy hanging in the air -- the bitter-sweet  
reek of expended sexual desire and its accompanying sense of regret. The  
lights seemed to have lost some of their brightness and people's faces had  
taken on a black-tinged aura. Jerry shivered in apprehension. Something  
was very wrong.

"End of session. You're free to leave now."

Celia led him up the stairs and to a door. The door leading back to his  
dull, meaningless life.

Jerry reached for the doorknob. Well, he'd had his glimpse of the  
forbidden. Now what?

_A loud explosion and momentary pain. Darkness. The end . . ._

There was a voice in the far distance. "It's a girl."

 

Celia looked at the snub-nosed pistol in her hand. Such a small weapon,  
but such great damage it could do. Jerry's body lay sprawled at her feet  
on the floor. The back of his shattered head was leaking gouts of blood  
and gray matter.

"So, the cycle begins once more," the woman who had spent the first twenty  
years of her life as Jerry Barnhart whispered to herself. In the distance  
she could hear sirens. She herself had called the police moments before  
shooting Jerry.

It would mean a death sentence, she knew. A cold-blooded execution-style  
killing immediately following a sex orgy would leave a judge and jury  
little choice. But this was the way it had to be. Fate had led both her  
and Jerry to this particular meeting and to this ending of paths. It  
was also a beginning.

 

There were blurry . . . something . . . faces! Peering downward at him.  
Jerry screamed his outrage up at them, at the world. All he could do was  
wave chubby little arms and legs, and scream. He had almost no control  
over his body, over _this_ body. The last thing he remembered was  
facing a dark wooden door, and a woman . . . Celia? . . . behind him,  
then agony and release. And now this!

"Have you decided on a name?" A gruff masculine voice among the alien faces.

"My husband and I like 'Cecilia.' She was my favorite aunt." The soft  
voice of a woman. The sound of it was comforting. Jerry lay in her arms  
and looked up at her. Cecilia? Usually shortened to Celia. The world  
lurched. Jerry realized . . . he (no, _she!_ ) was in the body of  
a baby girl. He ( _she!_ ) had somehow been reborn as Celia.
    
    
     "Guilty as charged, Your Honor."
    
      As expected. It had been an open-and shut case. She wouldn't bother
      asking for clemency.
    

"No! Don't you _dare_ touch yourself down there!"

Two years old and Celia ( _Jerry!_ ) was still curious about what  
it felt like being in a girl's body. Aside from that, childhood  
was so terribly boring. Being watched every minute. Being told to  
do _this_ , warned not to do _that_. Damn it, he/she was an  
adult. Twenty-plus-two years old. Years, many more years before he/she  
could be free of supervision once more.

School was difficult. Celia had hardly been a good student in her  
( _his!_ ) past life, but had still picked up most of the required  
skills. What a bore it was having to learn to read again. She already  
_knew_ how. Dangerous to let on, though. Teacher might feel  
threatened by an uppity student, and little Celia would get slapped  
down. Again. Better to just shut up and bide her time.

Money was a problem. The quarter-a-week allowance little eight-year-old  
Celia got didn't go very far. Not unless she was willing to take risks.  
She _knew_ who was going to win the World Series that year and just  
happened to "remember" some other things that hadn't happened yet, too.  
A few judicious bets with classmates ran up her stake to $5. Now what?

Two years later she had $600 in change and small bills buried in a jar  
in the back yard. It hadn't been easy. She had managed to convince a  
schoolmate's older brother to place illegal bets on horse races, and  
once on the presidential race. No one in their right mind would have  
put their money on Kennedy, not before the debates, when Nixon was so  
obviously a shoo-in. The odds had been good, though.

Now what?
    
    
      The execution date was set. To the consternation of her friends,
      not to mention her lawyers, Celia had adamantly refused to appeal
      the conviction.
    
     "After all, I _did_ murder the guy in cold blood.
      And I damn well _am_ sound of mind. Let justice be done."
    
      And justice would indeed be done. A month from today.
    

Not every fourteen-year-old girl had half a million secreted in a Swiss  
bank account, safely out of reach of authorities and parents. It hadn't  
been easy. But foreknowledge of things to come and steely determination  
had done the job.
    
    
     "I'm grateful, of course," the reporter said. "But why did you agree
      to let _me_ interview you, when you turned down requests from
      every one of my colleagues?"
    
     "You're the only one who has, to my knowledge, written about
      paranormal phenomena in even a halfway sympathetic manner,"
      Celia answered. "Not that I think you'll believe what I'm
      about to tell you . . . "
    
     ". . . and so, you see, my body will die tonight, but _I_ won't.
      I fully expect to reawaken in the body of an infant.
      The infant whose adult persona I shot and killed one year ago."
    
     "You're right. I don't believe a single word of it.
      But, you betcha, it'll make an interesting story."
    

Twenty-one years old. Finally a full-fledged adult. A very wealthy adult.  
Celia had half a billion in cash and investments.

Why? Why had she bothered to accumulate that much? She had asked herself  
that again and again in the past few years. The answer, when it came, was  
chilling in its cold, crystalline logic.

She needed money, a great deal of money, in order to set up the necessary  
preconditions for certain future events. There had to exist a very special  
type of ritual. A ritual that could release the particular type of energy  
to trigger a psychic transfer backwards in time. A ritual/game of orgy and  
sexual -- well, by present-day standards it would be called "depravity."  
Prevailing social conditions wouldn't tolerate the Game. Therefore, she  
would just have to change the social climate. That took money. Tons of it.

How to start? Well . . .

Through several of her front companies, subsidize with discreet injections  
of cash certain sociologists and authors starting to have half-formed  
ideas about a "sexual revolution." Fund a few "liberating" plays and films  
on related topics. Help along a selected few rock bands singing suggestive  
lyrics set to an inhibition-loosening beat. Establish a defense fund  
for erotic publishers being prosecuted by the government. Contribute to  
the campaigns of various progressive political candidates. Buy a chain  
of newspapers and several radio and TV stations to get the message  
across. There were other interesting possibilities, too.

Along the way she'd had ample opportunity to sample the new sexual  
freedom for herself. Her sensual appetites, so carefully restrained while  
"growing up," at last found full expression. She took as lovers men and  
women of all inclinations. She rediscovered and savored sex in all its  
multitudinous varieties and permutations.

More than once, she wondered if this could be the cause and justification,  
the entire _purpose_ of the social movements of the 60s -- just  
to establish the right conditions for perpetuating the cycle of her  
alternating lives. All these people marching for personal freedom, for  
sexual liberation -- all this just for _her_ sake? Or was it the  
other way around? Did Jerry/Celia exist just to provide the triggering  
events for the craziness going on in streets and bedrooms all across  
America? What was cause and what was effect? In the end, did it really  
even matter?
    
    
      She was staring at the ceiling, strapped down on the cot.
      There was a sharp sting as the IV needle entered her vein.
    
     "Any last words, Celia?"
    
     "Do your damn duty. Inject your damn poison. Gloat as you
      watch me die. I spit in your ugly face as I go joyfully
      to meet my fate."
    

The rundown Victorian mansion was perfect for her purposes. Now it was  
just a matter of setting up an organization . . . and recruiting people  
who were sexually adventurous. Oh, yes. And making sure that word of what  
was going on got to a certain Jerry Barnhart, resident of this fair town.
    
    
      Disorientation. Dizziness. Then a distorted voice in the
      distance. "It's a boy."
    
      There was something wrong! She couldn't remember. She couldn't
      think! Where was she? _Who_ was she?
    
     "Indeed, doctor. There were some complications with the delivery.
      The umbilical cord became entangled. This may have temporarily
      cut off blood flow to the newborn. We'll have to wait and see
      whether there was any permanent brain damage. I'll go tell the
      Barnharts."
    


End file.
